


Spotless all the same

by laughingpineapple



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Ficlet Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/pseuds/laughingpineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lost his closest friends in a single day, estranged everybody else, had no clues for three years, no real leads for four, chose to wear a mask that couldn't slip. And he never gave up.<br/>A collection of drabbles and flashfics for assorted game timeline Cabanela angst between Alma's death and the final night's events (it's a lot of angst!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A likely if uncooperative ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “People wouldn't liiike it if they saw me here, baby. They'd get aaall sorts of ideas in their pretty heads.” Cabanela whistled. “Most of which, of course, correct.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using this old drabble (with its old end notes, heh) as the collection's first chapter - I'm not aware of the fandom etiquette for these situations, apologies if deleting and republishing would've been better!

“You tell him. He'll listen to you.” Cabanela shifted on the stone bench, following a waltz-like one-two-three in uncrossing and stretching his legs. He snorted and dropped his head in his hands. It sounded better in his thoughts, that.  
“I need his help, baby, I do... I can't do everything on my own. Can you do that for me, baby?”  
The silence weighed on him. His move. It was always his move, wasn't it? White first, as she waited for him to leave an opening and lose the exchange, but they had little time for games now. He lifted an eyebrow and straightened his neck, looking at the tidy patch of grass beyond his feet with a tentative grin. “Weeell, maybe I can. I wiiill. And then we'll rest. Promise, baby. You just hold on for a whiiile, ok?”  
Alma's grave never answered.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lose the exchange" as in chess... do you English-speaking people really call it "the exchange"? Everybody else is like "qualità", "Qualität", what's with "the exchange"? Or did Wikipedia lie to me? Anyway.  
> That's not the main point of these notes.  
> The main point of these notes is OMG IT'S CANON THEY WERE CLOSE. Cabanela says "Alma", not "Jowd's wife", in the English version... and says "Alma" with no honorifics in the Japanese version (thanks Clover! Chrismas. It's Christmas all over). This drabble was plotted before this discovery... because... treasured headcanon... and... OMG IT'S CANON THEY WERE CLOSE. Ok.  
> 


	2. Stages of denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief better have no business in even entering the equation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merging another old (2012-01-29) ficlet.

  
The day after, he went to work, annoyed his colleagues, showed off, worked on his case, in that order. Which is not to say he did not work on his case: Jowd had given him all the leads he needed (right. Jowd. He might have to pay him back for that, solve one of his cases, for one) and he had hauled in the culprit and finished his paperwork by tea time. He just took specific care in annoying his colleagues and showing off, that's all. Nothing unusual about it.  
  
The second day after, he only realized that he had pedaled all the way to their home as he stood in front of the entry phone: it was a Wednesday evening and Wednesday evenings were for pasta and movies, nothing like it as he used to say and he _meant_ it. An officer told him that the crime scene was classified, if he could provide a written authorization, sir. So he went to his own house and stood in front of a silent TV screen.  
  
The third day after was the funeral. He felt uncomfortably white for all the wrong reasons. Said something about friendship. Couldn't quite remember what.   
  
The fourth day after, he decided it never happened. Well something happened. Something else. Of course Jowd confessed, Jowd spouted so much nonsense every time he opened that big mouth of his, he couldn't possibly be the only one who noticed? What did a confession ever have to do with facts. What did evidence ever have to do with facts when it made no sense. Nothing, that's what.  
  
The fifth day after, he decided he'd show everyone else how wrong they were. Nothing unusual about that either. Story of his liiife, baby.   
  
And then it was 'the fifth day after' over and over and over again.


	3. Work is fine, work keeps him together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's betrayal. Of trust and friendship and common sense. He'll save him from those insulting murder accusations just to have him hanged for betrayal. The perfect plan, baby -- but that's in the future. A distant future, even though his gut instinct (almost rhymes with wishful thinking) screams that he'll get there, and the problem is surviving the journey.

It's the evenings, see.  
Little things first, basic survival after the end of the world. So Cabanela fixes the TV in his flat, dives for the long-forgotten remote --if he knows himself, and he does, it should be behind the phone book-- there, buys himself a VCR, 'their' movies, the smallest couch (more of an armchair, and the clerk is left wondering where he's planning to park those legs). He's set.  
The tricky part is forcing all thoughts away, one by one: reality is stubborn but he's a good match. Then, as the same old lines they knew and mocked buzz from the TV in a soothing mantra, he can still feel Alma's hair tickling his neck, Jowd's arm embracing them both, his life beating to the rhythm of their hearts.


	4. A contest of contumacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another point conceded, but he'll have his grand comeback soon. er. Or later.

It's a daily ritual, the one date he won't miss in the organized mess that is his private life.

 _Don't give me that look, man. Just face it. I'm riiight and you know it_ , he says with pride.

And the following morning:

_Stop it. Now the world is all wrong._

Or:

 _Suuure, you're big and loyal and enough of an idiot. There's this one thing I don't get, baby: who is important enough that you'd take the fall? (Who_ else _if it wasn't me?)_

_'Cause I can think of one smart little beauty, but she didn't do it either._

_I'll show you, godsdamnit, I'll show you. Hang on, jerk._

The list goes on.

 

Cabanela can be a stubborn man, with no qualms in charging alone against the world by the sole virtue of actually being right: it takes a special degree of inflexibility to make a winning strategy out of crashing into adversities head first, but it's served him well so far.

 

There was one man whom he considered his equal, patient enough, at times, to outlast his jokes and jabs.

Against his picture, framed in the same unnerving smile for more than a year now, Cabanela doesn't stand a chance.


	5. Devotion is not a question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s how you deal with issues, right? (Sure, it works marvels when you don’t have an answer)

At times, he stops to ask himself why. He literally stops – whether at his desk or slumped on the railing of a staircase, his body refusing movement is the mark of a Serious Question and he treats it accordingly.

Why is he throwing his life away for that man? Not throwing away per se, he adds in a haste. Career is reeeal nice. But were it career for career’s sake, he’d enjoy the progress. Career for _his_ sake on the other hand, getting two promotions when one shouldn’t have been his… it doesn’t feel right, baby. And it doesn’t feel useful either. Just loyal. Just stupid.

He could let go, focus on the current cases, get a new life, some sleep. Instead, he is tying himself to a liar and a coward who dare not even face him. What does that cheat deserve (at times, he can barely bring himself to call him by name).

He didn’t do it, he offers weakly. They can’t let her murder go unpunished – if his partner is stuck on ‘worthless numbskull’, the job’s up to him.

Still.

It’s a Most Serious Question and Cabanela sneers at it every damn time in his Most Serious Frown until it goes away.


	6. ~IMMEASURABLY DEEP POOLS OF AZURE~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'What is left of us' can wait. The urgent question now is what's left of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title's quite obviously an inside joke, but the fic is not.

The gun is locked and loaded and his aim doesn't waver. Without taking his eyes off the fugitive, Cabanela strides forward until the barrel wrinkles the thick pink fleece of that awful smock. He twists and pushes forward, pressing against a rib, and makes sure it leaves a mark: grease and gunpowder, as is proper for a detective of his stature (acrylic paints, not as much).  
It's a poke, as literal as it gets. It begs for a reaction: are you still alive, baby? 'cause there was friction in his words five minutes earlier, a passive resistance he remembers well, but it felt flat, like a familiar curtain drawn to hide a room that's burned down.  
He realizes he's out of practice with this when the frank, open stare he gets in return, classic one-two maneuver that it is, catches him by surprise. As intended, no doubt. Jowd'll clam up again soon enough, but he's shown him a breach and in all honesty, it leaves him a little lost, a little shaky in the knees.  
It's more than burned: the room has been surgically removed. There's nothing there. He doesn't dwell on what it means that the man's still able to score a dialectic point or two.  
His blue eyes are mesmerizing, mildly amused, unconcerned, deep, gentle, so very dead.   
  
  
On some level, it has to be cheating, because Cabanela sees himself jumping on the defensive and that's not fair, like it's his fault for letting Jowd slide, for never holding out a hand, well guess what, he was busy making himself useful and besides "You lied", he says, it's the best explanation he comes up with, the farthest origin.   
"And you turned out this way." He nods, the bastard, accepting the fact as if a gun rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing were nothing less than due.  
Twitching his finger against the trigger, Cabanela considers the last five years of his life, cause (just one) and consequences (all of them, this conversation included, and he can't show his colours yet). "Yes."


	7. A dash of dried red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is there and he is alive and it should be enough to feel relieved.

It's not what he signed up for. He had a murderer to find and a friend to prove innocent, easy-peasy. More than innocent: spotless. Like him. Jowd did not kill Alma, not in this nor in any other universe, so Cabanela had sworn to himself that he'd have him back on his feet, free to proudly raise his head and start patching up what was left of his life, daughter first, possibly friendships soon after. The man could be a jerk, but he was not known to spare gratitude once the actual merits of the people close to him had been drilled into his thick head. Cabanela would make sure of that.

In his ideal little world, they could be happy again one day. A little happy. Lonelier. But free. Except his investigations have just proven and certified that there was nobody else at home that day, not during the tragedy nor afterwards. No easy scapegoat he can point his finger at and say "You. You ruined them. Pay." Nobody who could have altered the scene to make it look like Jowd's work -- nobody but Jowd himself.  
Why.  
Ok, so he's known it all along -- a man who has simply been framed doesn't plead guilty, does he. An innocent man calls his friend in times of need. But that hunch burned so bad that Cabanela had learned to tuck it back and use it as fuel, to go forward and prove it dead wrong. As if his hunches ever were. Now he has to face it.

His partner is not a killer, but he is not without blame either, and it's the hardest blow to his resolve yet (which is to say, not much. It's just finished tainting any and all memories of the three of them, but he can deal with it. He can deal with everything, he has to.)

*

 

He is letting Jowd follow as he scampers toward the minister's office. He can hear the man's steps behind him and he knows he won't pull any tricks: for all of Cabanela's efforts, he's dead already, just smiling on his way to his own slaughter wherever that may be. Such a man does not try to escape, not even to spite him. Not exactly how he wanted to be able to trust him once they'd meet again, he sighs, but reliable all the same and less insulting than a loaded gun to his back.  
The steps grow nearer and he feels a hand cup his shoulder.  
"Hey. Let Lynne know I was grateful."

Cabanela frowns and swirls out of reach to face him before the whole thing escalates in an awkward hug and whispers of 'shhh, no need for that, everything will turn out juuust fine, I have your back, partner'. Count your blessings, he tells himself instead: he reached out. This frightening shell of the man he knew still cares for something, to a degree. If only he could take it as a blessing. There's relief, sure, but the pit of his stomach stays clenched as the gloomiest brand of his speculations rushes in and he can only see red, feel red dripping down his sleeve and more harsh words splash down with it:  
"You wash those bloodied hands before touching my coat, baby."  
He doesn't know what to think. Then again, with Jowd he never did.


	8. White lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jowd has a notebook, Lynne has a notebook, Cabanela had a notebook.

He tries. Which does not, in his own views, hold much of an inherent value, but he tries. Cabanela is alone now, with two detectives' worth of career resting on his shoulders and some major workload on the side. So out of fondness, memories and who knows, even a remote chance that it could turn out to be the better investigating method (he doubts it), one day he goes and buys himself a notebook.

Blank white paper under a blank white cover: the small pages cramp him down enough without grids and rules. He brands the first page with a squiggle he makes up on the spot, which in his head reads: “He didn't do it.” A declaration of intents. Then he tries. He writes down details and suspects and places and times, as his partner used to.

He wonders how his partner managed not to be bored out of his skull by page five – that's where his hand is stuck at, even writing at full speed. His thoughts are already darting halfway through the binding.

Words turn into lines, connected shapes, then disappear, leaving the page as an empty canvas for his brain to paint and erase at will. It's more efficient that way, the only solution to keep up with himself. Better still to just close his eyes and think, letting facts and reasons realign themselves.

The notebook is soon stuffed in a drawer along with all the other mementos he'd rather do without.

He tried. But he's got a case to crack, he can't afford to play games.

 

*

 

Detective Lynne's latest purchase has a way of ending up on his desk within three days. It's a neat little thing, quality paper, pink leather binding. Girl has taste. On the first page, in bold letters and a super secret code he remembers from middle school, is written: “Detective Jowd is innocent.”

 

_You're the pupil, you do this_ , Cabanela laughs to himself. _I'll get him out._


	9. A flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something too familiar in that office at the edge of town.

  
Cabanela has the act all nailed down, by now. The shock rolls back on his tongue; the slight shaking of his wrists propels a grand gesture, a show, a sleight of hand. He's still the same wild, witty character who entered the office minutes earlier and neither the man nor his pigeon will notice a thing. He's good. Or he will be good once he catches his breath and stops staring at the hanger.  
Still, he's got to ask.  
"Nice one you've got there. They don't go makin' coats like this anymooore, do they? I remember" - gods, does he ever. He also remembers every stray bullet and that impossible piece of fabric in front of him is patched in all the right places - "I haven't seen one this good for sale in more than a decade. It was a small shop near the harbour..."  
The professor snorts and cuts him short. Not a coat connoisseur, this one. His loss.  
"I've got an umbrella, why would I want to fit into an oversized rag? A friend dropped it here. Four years, I'll have him pay one heck of an overdue."  
Cabanela stops.  
"Baby", he says as he collapses on the closest chair, in his best impersonation of a wild, witty character requiring a firm support. "We need to talk."


	10. This is how he plays it safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best friend means he's certain that pulling the trigger will pay off. (chapter 15)

 

Cabanela's mouth stops talking and his hand drops the phone and his body drops on the chair and he's just himself again and he is empty. There's a sudden hole in his thoughts where his one remaining friend and his pigeon should be. Blood drips out of his body like coursing inside has gone out of fashion. He's been stripped of all the plans and strategies that could lead to that one hope of setting things right.

There's nothing left in him but the fierce old instinct of survival: he can feel its simple imperative echoing between his ears as he gives an empty stare at the man in red, weighing his anger. There has to be a way out, there always is one, for the gamblers and the brave – for a price. He is not the hunter anymore and this new game requires him to give in, sedate, divert. Yomiel will get away. It's a steep price, and he was so close. Yomiel will get away and with some luck, so will he.

But Cabanela has been so careful for such a long time. This was meant to be the big crowning night of his show (his all or nothing, but to be honest, baby, he really, really banked on the former) and there's nothing left in him: he's laid his traps all across town and now he's here alone. Alone with a bunch of broken bones and a gun in his pocket, but you can't kill a dead man.

Bunch of broken bones and a traceable gun in his pocket, but nobody's come for him. No big rescue like in the movies. Hasn't Jowd figured out the clock by now? Did his talent rot in that godsforsaken prison? Has he learned not to care to the point that he won't even study his present? With all their talks of a manipulator, does he believe the words of his phone call? Cabanela shuts out all hypotheses: he can't check, they don't matter, he's in no mood for gloom. His partner has his trust, it's a fact, an absolute, but he must have gotten soft with age and needs some time. There is no time. Jowd won't come for him. That's okay, he's not the target.

A traceable gun, by virtue of a traceable bullet.

He still has one trick up his sleeve after all: Yomiel taunts and Cabanela shoots his last reply.

Surviving this case has never been his top priority anyway.

 

_Your turn, old friend. Make it good._

 

His bullet comes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Surviving this case has never been his top priority anyway' is an actual canon sentiment, by the way. His career is more important than his life, and his career's goal is proving Jowd innocent, ergo.


	11. A white ghost came through the door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as his case was wrapping himself together somehow, the countdown starts.

On second sight, the prof is positive that the spotless rag that's just come through his office's door is human and alive.

Well, that he is alive. He still refuses to get himself tested and there's always been a reasonable margin of doubt on the 'human' part. But that, for now, seems to be rather beside the point.

"You look like someone who'd rather be dead drunk. Avoid doing so on my floor. Have a nice day."

Hello and welcome to you, Cabanela gestures in reply, and spits out a feeble rasp that sounds like 'cantaffordit'.

"I know, you fool. It's your gig. Buttoned up and in control, can't let a single word slip, can you? The universe cannot know that the mighty Inspector is a decent man with a heart. What a terrible revelation that would be. The horror!"

The man's limits are another well-kept secret, one that Cabanela only dares to show within the safe walls of the junkyard's office. He's been pushing himself past food, past sleep, past any chance for some peace of mind, and as a doctor of medicine the professor cannot help but worry and frown as his friend drags himself across the room to drop on the nearest chair. The last threshold is gone. He's cracking.

"Not the point, prof." The accompanying turn of hand is as tired as his voice.

"Out with it, then."

He meant it as a manner of saying, honest. From the way his friend reaches for air and clasps his knuckles white, it's as if taking that breath out of his lungs takes scalpel, spreaders and forceps. The words don't come.

Eventually, he says: “They're going to.”

Another deep breath. In the last whisper: "Death penalty."

"But we don't have–"

"Didn't enforce."

His neck rests on the tip of the chair's back, bended and sticking out at a worrying angle.

It's not what's past him that breaks him, as it never has, it's what's ahead, he was ready for stalling but never for defeat. Cabanela is facing a countdown now and every hour presses him further down – and he's already so close to dragging his coat down in the mud. He's ticking too. Counting the hours of sleep he can survive on for the next months and the ones he can do without, taking apart what is necessary and what is not, questioning whether even this stop to get the news off his chest was really something he couldn't have avoided. He rubs his temples and the dark marks under his eyes already seem so deep.

“We won't let that happen.” Optimism isn't his thing and while he realizes that a better wording could make a difference, these things take experience and a plain remark is all he has to offer.  
Cabanela looks through him like he's a distant record stating the obvious. He's not there, in that room, he's chasing his case still.

“'course not. He's been asking for it since the beginning, you know, I did my readin'”, he states in a restrained tone that sounds so wrong on him, barely a whisper, but his words are still those of a fighting man. “Never listened to the big idiot, the minister did. Smart guy. Now he caves in. Got my boys looking into this, could be a lead, could be blackmail. Has to be something. It smells like a something, got a nose for these things.”

“You won't let that happen, alright big guy, you're the hero. I've got your back.” The professor loosens his glare, like he figures a stern but affectionate father should, and pats Lovey Dove to get an encouraging chirp for all of them. They're his friends and his children. He isn't going to lose either.

“C'mon, now get some rest. You're exhausted.”

“...can't.”


	12. To raise a point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During those years, Cabanela never once forgot that his partner was innocent.  
> His potential for being an obnoxious ass, on the other hand, admittedly slipped his mind.

  
  
"Can I trust you?"  
Jowd's words catch him off guard and he misses the gun's grip as it twirls around his fingers. One more rotation, add flair and make it look intentional all along: cats manage these stunts all the time and you aren't too shabby either, man, don't falter now.   
They haven't talked much in the past ten minutes of their stroll to the minister's office, all topics being either too big or too insignificant for that night, but now his prisoner stops and turns, staring at him with a frown that almost looks like a proper worry. Cabanela clicks his heels and halts at a distance, aimed gun leaning against his hip.  
Whaddya know, baby, I thought you'd never ask.  
"Yes."  
Jowd nods and smiles, calm, inward, so close to an absolute zero and Cabanela is out of practice, he doesn't quite know how to read it, except for an alarm bell in the back of his head that warns for disaster, but that one's been blaring for the whole night.  
"Good to know. Would you mind, then." He takes a step forward, reaches with two fingers under the gun's barrel, tries to lift it it to weigh Cabanela's resistance. He lets him. Raises an eyebrow. Loosens the grip so that the twitching in his hand isn't carried over the metal. Content with his little experiment's results, Jowd pulls the gun gently and comfortably against his own throat.  
"If I can ask one favour of a trusted friend, then. Would you mind pulling the trigger?"  
Cabanela grins. Nothing like the thrill of an uphill battle, as long as he can still fight. Steady, relaxed but for his index finger locked on the godsforsaken trigger, he takes his time to appreciate the rhythms of heartbeat and breath. They can still fight.  
"You know me. Not a biiig fan of stains. Can't do, sorry! Got nothin' more cheerful to ask, old friend?"  
"That was the cheerful option! One disappointment after another, Inspector." He laughs. Gods damn it.  
"Likewise, baby."   
  
  
They remain silent, go back to their leisurely walk. As Cabanela catches a glimpse of his partner's questioning gaze, it occurs to him that he was being tested and in a flash and a smirk he's not that disappointed anymore. Likewise, baby.  
  



End file.
